


Jealous

by QuimbyCub



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: Anger, Self-Harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-25
Updated: 2017-09-25
Packaged: 2019-01-05 07:08:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12185304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QuimbyCub/pseuds/QuimbyCub
Summary: Jealous, a buffy: the vampire slayer fanficJealousFaith takes solace in the pain. After Amends, season three.





	Jealous

**Author's Note:**

> PG13-R (for SI triggers and f-bombs)  
> With thanks to OhShinyTomato for beta'ing one of the drafts

I can feel it sometimes, in my chest. It's a dark, heavy tension that makes me think there's a rubber band around my heart. It's not the same tension I get after a vamp gets away (for as rare a feeling that is, I know what it is). It's not the kinda tension you can shake with a good screw; it's more than that. It's fuckin' unbearable… and it's settling into my chest again right now. I can feel it, now, as I lay on the cheap-ass sheets, of my cheap-ass motel room bed. I can feel how it's swirling in my lungs and gut. I want it gone. Now.

I should go beat the shit outta a whole mess of demons. But it's almost dawn and I can't raid a nest alone. I'm alone, though; I pissed Buffy off when I tried to kill her murdering vampire fuck of a boyfriend. My fake watcher's dead 'cause she was evil. I still can't believe I let myself get tricked by that bitch. I know Gwendolyn Post had everyone fooled, but I shoulda known better. I don't trust people. See why? And now all my friends, I mean, all my, I mean, Buffy's friends are mad at me. But, know what? Screw them! I don't need 'em; I don't need anyone.

That thought actually makes me feel a little better, but the crap feeling in my gut's still there. I can't get rid of it. Well, I can. But…

I reach for the knife lying on the dresser beside my bed. Pushing the ragged hem of my cut-off denim shorts up so I can get to the skin higher up on my thigh. I hafta stop and look at it for a second. I hafta stop and think.

Okay, done thinking.

My skin is tan; tight over the toned muscle. I drag the silver knife lightly over my leg, watching the light reflect off the blade. I don't break the skin, just leave a red mark. The trail left by the cool metal on my warm skin quickly fades to white before disappearing all together.

The next time I let the blade touch down; I have it tilted so the sharpened length slips into my flesh. I let out a sharp breath with the pain. I'm a Slayer; I can cope with pain. I can block it out for shit's sake. But this isn't about blocking anything out; this is about the pain. This is about feeling. It's also a little about punishing myself for being such a naïve, trusting moron.

I make a second cut, just as clean, but at an angle to the first. It's deliberate, but it looks accidental, just in case someone gives enough of a shit to ask. I can blame it on a demon. (It is kinda their fault, Buffy's boy toy is a demon.)The cuts are deep enough to sell my story, too. I'm not really sure how deep they are, but the first one is bleeding pretty good.

Something comes over me and I want to taste the red sludge; it's the stuff that keeps me alive, keeps me feeling. It's the stuff that makes vamps so fucking happy. I run the edge of the blade across the cuts, gathering blood on the knife. The metal is glinting in the early light coming through the dingy glass window and the crimson stain shines just as bright. I carefully raise the knife to my mouth and let the red drip on my lips, I lick my lip and test the liquid's flavor; it's got a metallic taste beyond what's leaching through from the knife.

I like it. A lot. I run my tongue along the blade, from hilt to tip, in what could probably be interpreted as a very suggestive manner. I'll have to remember that if I can ever get Red to admit she likes chicks. She's so repressed; I bet she'd be into to kinky shit.

I almost wrap my mouth around the knife in my eagerness but hold back when I remember that it's fucking sharp and will hurt like a bitch. Still, I lick every drop of my own blood away before I move to cut again.

I place the edge of the knife back against my upper thigh and make three deep, seemingly random, slices. The pain doesn't register and I can't tell if that's a Slayer thing or something else. Not that I really care right now. As the cuts fill with ruby fluid, I realize that my nose is filling with the scent of the blood as well. That's gotta be a Slayer thing. It's intoxicating; like Jack and sex in a perfume.

When the blood starts to trickle down my leg, I duck my head to my thigh and lick at the bleeding skin; it's even better than from the knife. I think I may finally understand how vampires get off from doing this shit.

I rub my thumb across the cuts, collecting blood and sucking it into my mouth. Then I just let it bleed, watching as the sap that keeps me alive seeps out of my veins and stains my skin.

It finally occurs to me that the bad feeling in my chest has faded. The storminess in my stomach has been replaced with the satisfied disembodied feeling I get after a good slay, or a great lay. And yeah, it even occurs to me that I did something that most people would see as wrong, but it felt fuckin' amazing and really, that's all that matters.

I also realize that I want to do it again.

When B. finally comes to apologize and step off of her high horse, I try to hide the stained sheets with my body, but I make no effort to get up; she's not worth it. A part of me wants to tell Buffy…something. Talk to her about it since I'm kinda freaked by how much I loved the blood. That can't be normal.

I almost do tell her; almost. Instead I let her walk out. She can't help me. I don't even think I want help. If I did, if I wanted someone to save me, B's too weak and wrapped up in her little perfect life to help me. She's hated me since we met. She's jealous. That's it. She wants to be dark and sexy and wicked awesome, like me. I wonder if she'd be jealous of me for this too. She'd never had the nerve to help herself get where she needs. Not like me, not like this.

When we're training she catches a glimpse of the scars and asks. I almost tell her again, but instead I tell her about the (fake) vamps I (never) dusted. She leaves it alone. She probably wishes she'd been there to take the glory, the fake glory.

Later though, when I'm alone, I reopen the scars; I scratch them until they bleed. Then I lick my wounds again and relish in the taste, the scent, and the feel of it as it washes over my lips and tongue. Yeah, I'm starting to understand why vamps like blood. And even if my blood lust (in the simplest meaning of the term) isn't bad, there's something about understanding vamps is. Slayer's and vamps are totally different animals with nothing in common. But the realization doesn't make me want it any less. If anything, it makes me a little envious of the animals that live off this. It makes me a little jealous.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading my backlogged trash fix. Tell me how much it sucks in the comments section below.


End file.
